


Help and Hindrance

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Series: Periphery Defined [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Claire has the heart of an idealist, Gen, and Foggy is an enabler for noble hearted law breakers, but she has to figure out what she wants, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire's had an itch under her skin since the first time she dragged Matt Murdock out of a dumpster. "Things are different now," this itch tells her. The only thing is that she has no idea what it is that's changed.</p><p>Also, though he has shitty taste in music, Foggy Nelson is a good friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help and Hindrance

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is pretty much entirely disconnected from the other two, so if you haven't read them don't worry!
> 
> However, if you like ladies and the Daredevil show, all three are probably right up your alley

The soup kitchen smells like old food and dust and body odor and disinfectant. It's not a pleasant smell, certainly, but it's also not a bad one. Or maybe Claire just thinks that because she's used to it. Just frequently enough that Vicky, the woman who runs the place, knows her name (but not so frequently that she's counted as a "regular volunteer") she comes down on her off day, puts on an apron, and does whatever she's told to.

 

It's a different kind of helping than what she does during the day (and at once like and unlike the kind of helping she does at night), and sometimes.

 

Sometimes she needs that.

 

She's there now, after a long night and a longer shift before it, because she doesn't know what else to do with herself. Her normal Saturday routine is couch potato-ing with Netflix and sweatpants, but lately she hasn't been able to settle her thoughts enough to relax and forget about the world for even a few hours.

 

Something in her life changed when she dragged Matt out of the dumpster, even if she's keeping a careful ten yards away from him and the mess that is his life. She can just feel an itch under her skin, an insatiable restlessness in her bones that's screaming at her to give in, to stop acting like everything's the same.

 

Claire hasn't figured that change out yet, though. She can't figure out what the axes of her world have realigned to, and so here she is, working at the soup kitchen and trying to burn off the extra energy buzzing through her.

 

The smell of fresh chili and mashed potatoes layers over the older food smells and she's sweaty from stirring the big pot and from peeling potatoes and from being crammed in a tiny kitchen with half a dozen other people, but really the only bad thing is the music.

 

"Interesting" is the only word for the station the radio is tuned to. She doesn't dislike it, exactly, but it's not what she would _choose_. She's not that into pop music in the first place, and the songs are all Top Forty hits that haven't been in the top forty for several years, as if the DJ just pulled their teenage kid's iTunes library and set it on shuffle.

 

Still, despite the soundtrack, she feels like she's accomplished something by the time the morning shift draws to an end. She wipes sweat off of her forehead and ducks outside with her water bottle to get a breath of "fresh" city air.

 

There're three or four kids on the steps of the apartment building across the street, in various degrees of bad posture with DSs in hand. She closes her eyes, letting their Pokémon themed chatter wash over her as she her heart rate returns to normal, and tries to imagine what the Kitchen will be like when they're adults.

 

She thinks, if Daredevil stays alive long enough, that they might feel as safe at night as people do in other parts of New York City.

 

It's when she ducks back in (and she shouldn't have stopped, because now the ache is setting in to her muscles and she can feel herself dragging) that Vicky, a sweet black woman with a prematurely lined face, waves her over. Vicky turns and beams at the man next to her, who's wearing an apron and holding a ladle like he'd just entered the kitchen after working the line. "Foggy, this is Claire. She's not quite a regular around here, but you'll see her face from time to time if you keep coming like you have been."

 

Claire feels her eyes widen in shock for just a moment, sees the same surprise flash across Foggy's face.

 

She almost laughs, tells Vicky they've met before—and then she thinks about shaking fingers and harsh voices, about blood and heartbeats and tense revelations. She looks at Foggy's messy bun and his bright purple converse, at the smile lines around his eyes and the yellow star sticker on his cheek, and she knows they haven't met. Not really.

 

Claire holds out her hand and smiles. "Hi, Foggy. It's nice to meet you."

 

Foggy follows her lead and takes her hand, a grin spreading across his face. "Claire, right? It's fabulous to meet you, too."

 

"Foggy here has been volunteering every Saturday for the last month or so," Vicky tells Claire, beaming as she pats Foggy on the bicep. "We're very glad to have him. He has a great way with the kids, and—"

 

"Hey, Vicky?" Someone calls from the other side of the room, and Vicky holds up her index finger in a "just a moment" gesture.

 

She pats Foggy's bicep again then clasps hands with Claire. "Thank you so much for coming, dears. I'd love to chat, but duty calls." She makes an apologetic face and slips away, throwing a "You kids have fun," over her shoulder as she goes.

 

Claire tucks her hands into her pockets, and there's a long, quiet moment of Foggy studying Claire and vice versa. Then she asks, "What do you think of this place so far?"

 

"It's a great set up," Foggy tells her earnestly, and he nearly knocks himself in the face with his ladle when he goes to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. He makes a face, sets the ladle aside, and turns his attention back to Claire with a self-deprecating laugh. " _Anyway_. Yeah, it's great. This place is a lot cleaner than I would have expected for somewhere in the Kitchen, and Vicky's wonderful. Plus they do a good job of advertising that they're here, so they get a lot of traffic."

 

Claire is about to respond when Foggy adds, beaming, "And I just love their music selection."

 

She covers her snort with a fake cough.

 

Of course he does.

 

***

 

Claire got in a lot of fights when she was a kid.

 

She didn't like it when other kids made racist comments—not to her, yeah, but especially not to others. She didn't care for kids who stole or bullied or cut in line, either.

 

Of course, Claire was also a tiny string bean of a child in one of the toughest parts of New York, and even with the pointy kind of elbows that left bruises when she threw them around, she lost most of those fights.

 

She never really stopped fighting, though.

 

She just figured out new ways to do it.

 

***

 

"You're kidding."

 

"What?" Foggy widens his eyes mock innocently. "What part don't you believe?"

 

"The part where you're a cop."

 

"I know; can you believe I'd risk these looks on the mean streets of New York?"

 

Claire stops, sets her cardboard box down on the ground and raises an eyebrow as she stretches her back. "Uh huh. That's it."

 

Foggy snickers and sidles past her, adjusting his own load as he does. "Well, you've got me. I'm actually a lawyer."

 

Claire blows out a breath, shakes out her arms, and heaves her box back into her arms with a grunt. "Knew I didn't trust you."

 

"I am sincerely hurt by this, Claire. I am—thank you," Foggy says to the volunteer who grabs his arm to steady him when he almost trips over the threshold. "I am a good, decent human being who also happens to be a good, decent lawyer. I mean that both in that I fight for the little people instead of corporations, and that I do well at my job."

 

"You can't even walk in a straight line. How on earth do you command a court room?"

 

"My partner tells me I have a great speaking voice. And he's _blind,_ so he should know." Foggy sets the box down in the corner Vicky had directed them to, spins to point emphatically at Claire. " _And_ he likes my taste in music, you snobby music snob."

 

Claire rolls her eyes, jerks her head to get him to move out of the way. "'Snobby music snob.' Yeah, I can see what you mean now, counselor—you have a way with words. And in regards to him liking your music?" She smirks at him as she dusts off her hands. "He's _got_ to be lying about that part."

 

Foggy gasps dramatically. "Matt would _never_. He values our friendship too much to lie to—" he breaks off, breaks character, a shadow crossing his face as he looks away.

 

Claire clears her throat, nudges him with an elbow as she passes. "Come on, you Jonas Brothers fan. We've got more boxes to lug inside."

 

***

 

It's a cold night, and Claire should probably have just called a taxi. The wind bites through her sweater, even with it tugged tightly about her shoulders. She's pretty sure she lost feeling in her toes a block back. But Matt had called her in for the first time in weeks- he only asks her for help when he's actually in danger of dying, these days- and she'd been too buzzed on adrenaline to sit through a cab ride when she walked out of his apartment.

 

She's regretting that now.

 

She readjusts her sweater as she pauses for a light, grimacing, and looks up and down the street. There are no cars so she could just _go_ , but she's already broken enough laws tonight. She'd end up getting hit, because karma's a bitch with a shitty sense of humor.

 

She stares moodily across the intersection, shuffling in place for a little bit of warmth. Normally this kind of weather holds off for at least a few more weeks, she thinks glumly, and when a dark figure swings from the top of one building to the alley way on the other side of the street, she's checking her pockets for gloves and almost doesn't notice.

 

Her head jerks up as she realizes what she just saw, and for a moment she thinks—Murdock, you _dumbass_.

 

And then she remembers the way he'd smiled at her, pained, as he limped into his kitchen. There was no way he could have gotten over a block in front of her, even _if_ he ignored her parting admonitions and went right back out. And he's been good (or at least better) about taking care of himself lately, from what Foggy's implied.

 

So who the hell else would be _swinging_ through Hell's Kitchen at this time of night?

 

Her light finally changes, but she's already heading off in the other direction in pursuit of the mysterious acrobat.

 

She can hear him when she reaches the alley—he's cursing under his breath, a litany of not-particularly-creative abuse focused on "web shooters" and "asshole rapists". There's a crash as if he's just knocked over a trashcan, and the cursing doubles in speed.

 

"Hello?" she calls from where she stands at the mouth of the alley. "Who's there?"

 

"Fuckshit—" he spins to face her, hand clasped over his side, and then he nearly falls over. He catches himself on the wall, giant white eyes flashing briefly in the glare of the streetlight. "Just your friendly neighborhood. Um. Garbage Inspector." He pauses, looks around him and nods decisively. "Yep, this all looks like garbage. So I'll just—" he jerks a thumb behind him, takes a few steps back.

 

"Spider-Man?" she hazards, guessing by the logo on his chest and vaguely remembered Bugle headlines. He freezes, and she takes another step into the alley. "Spider-man, are you hurt?"

 

"Absolutely not, ma'am, in fact, I am downright peachy. Peachy keen, even." He lets out a nervous, borderline hysteric laugh. He's just a teenager, she realizes, as the headlights of a passing car illuminate him sharply for a moment—he's lanky, not quite grown into his limbs, and his voice seems to jump another octave every time he opens his mouth.

 

His mouth is still running as she tries to remember how long it's been since she first saw him in the news. "Also, you know, I'm not Spider-Man, I'm just your average joe garbage inspector, and I have no idea why you—"

 

"Are you kidding me, kid?" Claire snaps, and his jaw closes with a sharp click. "Cut the crap and tell me what's going on."

 

"I may have ventured a little further into the Kitchen than I meant to and gotten myself stabbed," he blurts, responsive to the authority in her tone, and she motions for him to come over to her. He hesitates.

 

"I'm a nurse," she assures him as she moves closer. "Let me look at it."

 

"See, but just because you say that?" He backs away, heap whipping side to side as he tries to find an escape route in the dead end alley. "I mean, my momma always told me not to trust random ladies in alley ways, not that she was that specific, ya know, 'cause ya gotta be general in this town since you really just shouldn't trust anyone! And—"

 

Claire growls in frustration, holds her hands up. "Just—stop. Don't go anywhere. I'm not trying to attack you, kid, Jesus."

 

"But I don't _know_ that," he says, plaintively. He's stopped moving away again, though, so she counts it as a victory.

 

"I know Daredevil," she offers, after a moment of tense silence. "You two have worked together, right?"

 

"Soooooort oooof?" he drags out, still eyeing her distrustfully.

 

"Would you recognize his voice?" Claire asks, and she pulls her phone out of her pocket. "I can call him and get him to vouch for me."

 

Spider-Man stares at her. "You have Daredevil on speed dial."

 

"Technically I just have his number memorized."

 

"Are you dating him?" the kid blurts. Claire raises an eyebrow, and he mumbles an apology.

 

"I stitch him up sometimes," she explains dryly, "when he's too stupid to keep from getting knifed." She looks pointedly at the hand he still has clasped to his side.

 

"Yeah, that makes sense." The kid doesn't back away as she begins to approach him again, nodding sagely to himself as if he's figured something out. "Plus he's Catholic, right? Celibacy."

 

"Pretty sure that's just the priests. Can I get a look at this knife wound?" Claire touches his hand lightly, brown skin on brown skin, and he lets her guide it away. The cut is deep but not very long—probably just enough to bother him but not enough to be an actual problem. The tripping was just him being an awkward, nervous teenager. (And this kid is a superhero. Jesus.) Still, it needs a few stitches, and Claire roots through her bag for a local anesthetic. (Not that she's entirely sure she even has one; she never needs it with Matt.)

 

He eyes the needle as she pulls it out, shuffles half a step back. "You know, I have a healing factor. This'll probably be fine in a day, max. I could just limp on home and—"

 

"Shut up."

 

"Shutting up."

 

***

 

Some people are nervous about the growing number of masks in New York.

 

Claire hears the whispers—

 

"I heard another one was seen the other day over in Manhattan. It's like a plague."

 

"Did you hear about that robbery? Half a million dollars in damages because that guy in a suit busted in."

 

"Who do they think they are, running around in those get ups?"

 

"We have no idea who they are or what they want, you know?"

 

"Menaces, all of them."

 

—but she doesn't agree. She's met the kind of people who run around in funny costumes punching muggers in the face. They're the kind of people who would jump in front of buses for complete strangers and get knifed in the stomach preventing rapes. The kind of people you help, not the kind of people you hinder.

 

***

 

Claire flops down across from Foggy, unwinding her scarf from around her neck with swift, practiced movements. "Did you order yet?"

 

"I figured I'd defer to you, since you seem to think my taste is abhorrent," he tells her amusedly. "There's snow in your hair."

 

"It's snowing," she says, rolling her eyes. He hands her a menu and she skims through it as Foggy people watches and swirls his straw around in his glass. Their silence lingers companionably, mellow and expectationless, until Claire lets her menu drop to the table and yawns.

 

"Long night?" Foggy asks innocently, as if he hadn't been the one to call her over to Marci Stahl's apartment.

 

(Where's the boundary? What can they discuss as Claire and Foggy, soup kitchen volunteers turned casual friends, and what belongs only to Claire and Foggy, flotsam and jetsam from Daredevil's path?)

 

"Worked the night shift again," Claire tells him dryly. "Had to make a house call for some jackass who doesn't even know how to give decent directions over the phone."

 

Foggy sniffs. "'Jackass.' You should try to be more understanding; he was probably a bit preoccupied."

 

She smirks. "Never said it was a he."

 

Foggy sticks his tongue out at her.

 

Claire can't resist a snicker, but she sobers quickly. She can feel Foggy frowning at her as she stares blankly out the window, and she blows out a long breath and turns back to him. "Can we stop playing games for a second?" she asks, and Foggy settles into his chair.

 

"Go ahead, Claire," he murmurs, and she thinks that that's probably the face he puts on when he's in court.

 

She leans towards him, playing with the peeling corner of her laminated menu as she meets his eyes. "I've been considering setting up something permanent so that my… clients can come to me instead of me going to them," she says. "A secret sanctuary, of sorts. The kind they'd only be able to find through word of mouth."

 

"Clients?" Foggy asks, stressing the 's' with a furrow between his brow. "You mean you—"

 

"I met this kid from Queens the other week." Claire tells him. "He needed my help, so I gave it to him."

 

"And now you're considering—"

 

"Opening my doors to other people in his line of work." Foggy opens his mouth, concern on his face, and Claire rushes on. "I know you had your issues with Matt's second job at first, Foggy, but haven't you seen it yet? The changes in this city since they started coming out of the woodwork? Crime rates are down, and it's not even just because the criminals are being caught. It's because they're too scared to try anything. And more importantly than the statistics, the people. We have—the people have something to believe in, now. The city needs the masks to save it. I just…" she sags in her seat, hearing the desperation in her tone but unable to stop it. "I want to be there to save _them_."

 

Foggy stares at her and then runs a tired hand over his face. "What is it about me?" he asks her. "Why do the noble hearted law breakers just take one look and say 'Yes, this one. He will enable me.'"

 

"Foggy…"

 

"Claire, do you even know how you'd fund something like that?" Foggy asks bluntly. "Do you know how you'd get enough supplies, or a place to work that they could get to without being noticed? How you'd deal with the people whose physiologies aren't entirely human?"

 

She blows out a breath, closes her eyes. "I guess it is a little ridiculous, isn't it?" she says, and tries to believe it. "Just a random thought I gave a little too much merit."

 

"It's not just a thought." Foggy drums his fingers on the table, frowning at her. "It's a daydream."

 

***

 

"SHIELD," Claire repeats, dumbfounded.

 

Foggy shoves his hands in his pockets, not meeting her eyes. "You saw all of that shit that went down in Sokovia. They aren't the bad guys the news media is making them out to be."

 

"But how would I—"

 

"I talked to Matt. He's talking to—the kid from Queens. Apparently he knows pretty much everyone, so hopefully he'll be able to get us… a name. A number. Something. I can't promise anything, obviously, not even that you'll actually get to talk to anyone, but there's the possibility that you can get them to sponsor you and your… clinic."

 

"Foggy, that's…" Claire can feel it, the itch between her shoulder blades, the restlessness in her bones. It has a goal now. "Thank you."

 

Foggy scratches the back of his head, makes a face. "I didn't really do anything, except maybe strong arm Matt, but even then I just told him he owed you so—"

 

"Of course," Claire casually cuts him off, a smirk tilting up the corner of her lips. "I hope you understand what this means, that I went to you with a scheme and a week later you brought me a chance to make it reality."

 

Foggy snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening. "I—"

 

"You're enabling me in my noble hearted, law breaking endeavors."

 

"Oh my god." Foggy drops onto her couch, burying his face in his hands. "It _is_ something about me, isn't it? Oh my _god_."

 

Claire sits down next to him, nudges him with her elbow until he looks up. "Really though, Foggy," she says quietly. "Thanks for not dismissing my daydream."

 

Foggy sighs as he sits up. "You had that look in your eye, you know? The one Matt gets, when he talks about what he does at night. The one Karen got when she was working with Ben Urich." Foggy grimaces. "The one I lovingly call 'Foggy Nelson, one day everyone you know is going to get arrested.'"

**Author's Note:**

> So I read an article that talked about how Claire's character in the show had some strong elements of the Night Nurse, and I was like HELL YEAH, CLAIRE TEMPLE RUNNING A CLINIC FOR SUPERHEROES.
> 
> And then I realized that I have no idea how the Night Nurse actually runs said clinic, and I didn't feel like googling it, so instead you get "Claire Temple POTENTIALLY running a clinic for superheroes" with some exploration of Claire's character, a heavy dose of Foggy and Claire being bros, and a carefully crafted cameo from my fave ever, Peter Parker.


End file.
